


honey, it's easier knowing

by greeksalad



Category: Life of the Party D&D (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, but also mild angst??, ep 23 spoilers, look man they're just two dumb boys who need to get their stuff together okay, ren-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeksalad/pseuds/greeksalad
Summary: Renard hated not understanding things.
Relationships: Cassian/Renard (Life of the Party)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	honey, it's easier knowing

**Author's Note:**

> i watched the premiere of episode 23 and SHDDHJSHSJDGSJD. that is all.

By some unspoken mutual agreement (or perhaps mutual stubbornness), neither he nor Cassian brought up the kiss again. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, Ren would catch a glimpse for Cassian watching him, but when he looked up, he would always be staring into the firelight, or saying something to Sariel, or flicking through his water-logged tome, and Ren would be left to wonder if perhaps it was all just wishful thinking.

And that in itself was something. _Wishful thinking._ Did Ren _want_ Cassian to be looking at him? Did he want the way Cassian sometimes brushed against him as he stepped past to be more than purely accidental? Did he _want Cassian?_

The thought was somehow too much to bear, so Ren did what he did best and pushed those stupid, niggling questions to the back of his brain, so far back that they could barely even be considered thoughts at all.

So, he and Cassian never spoke of it again, and their lives went on as per usual. They argued and bickered, turning the tiniest of issues into something vast and red-hot in the way that only they could manage, and then had moments of not-really-there apologies and attempts at civility. Somehow, despite how few and fleeting they were, it seemed to balance out their obdurate squabbling – at least, to Ren, anyway. 

In short, things were fairly normal.

Well, almost.

Since that night outside the tavern in Lakeside, Ren had begun to find _things_ in random places: inside his pack (but not far enough inside to make him think that someone had gone through his belongings), on his pillow, next to his plate at breakfast, even in his pockets. They were nothing major, harmless, really; just small trinkets, like a seashell, or a water-smoothed piece of glass, or, on one particularly memorable occasion, a small bird carved from wood.

The first time Ren asked Cassian about it (because, really, who else could it have been?), he had just found a smooth white stone, about the size of a gold piece, wrapped up in one of the shirts that Cassian had mended for him mere hours ago. “Cassian,” he’d said, and Cassian had looked up, his gold henna flashing amber in the firelight. “What is this?” he’d asked, holding up the stone in front of Cassian’s face. “Why did you give it to me?”

His voice had been tight with barely-controlled rage, but he wasn’t even sure why he was so mad.

_(Ren hated not understanding things.)_

He’d expected something cool and snide, perhaps even flat-out denial, but instead, Cassian had shrugged one bare shoulder, the picture of nonchalance, and replied, “I just thought you might like it.”

Renard had been so confused, so utterly thrown off, so _angry,_ that he’d turned away from Cassian, hands shaking for reasons he couldn’t explain, and gone to sleep where he was sitting: leaning against a rock, without a bedroll or a blanket.

When he’d woken up, he had a blanket tucked up around him. He didn’t want to know who had done it, and so he didn’t ask.

Since then, the various knick-knacks had continued to find their way into his belongings. Each time, Ren would hold each object in his hand and stare at it, silently contemplating throwing it out the window or deep into the forest.

In the end, though, he always kept them.

-

Some time passed; Renard wasn’t quite sure how much – a few weeks, a month? Time always seemed to move differently when he was with his new friends.

You would assume that, with time, his feelings would become much clearer.

This was apparently not the case; if anything, Ren was even more confused.

Ren found himself more and more grateful for his mask, even as he began to wear it less frequently around the group, because it helped to hide the stupid, treacherous flush that Cassian brought to his cheeks by doing, well, pretty much anything. When they went into battle, Ren often caught himself keeping half an eye out for Cassian ( _please don’t get hurt please please please melora i beg of you-)_

(When Cassian had called him out on it, Ren had panicked and blundered his way through a terrible excuse – “You’re just… fragile, Cassian. Much like your ego, hmm?” – that resulted in a mutual two-day silence treatment.)

The arguing and the gifts and the snide comments and the sword training and the stony silences and the glares and the _kiss_ all blended into one twisted, deafening cacophony of emotions that cancelled each other out to make _utter confusion_ , and Ren wanted to _scream._

It all came to head when they were fighting a manticore.

If anyone was going to get hurt during a fight, it was Renard; this was common knowledge. He was the only melee fighter in a group full of spellcasters (oh, the irony). It was logical that he would take the most hits – in fact, it had been proven on multiple occasions. This fight was no exception, and, as Ren went flying head-first at the wall after taking a massive spiked tail to the ribs, all he could think about was the shard of sea-smoothed crimson glass he’d found tucked into his belt this morning.

Everything was so, _so_ fuzzy. Ren thought he might have blacked out, but he couldn’t be sure, because he couldn’t _think_.

Time passed in a slow haze. There were white lights and blue lights and green lights, all crackling and arcing through the air, and they hurt to look at, so Ren closed his eyes, but they were _still there_ behind his eyelids, and Ren would’ve cried if he could remember how to.

He finally came to in a low, rolling field, just off a winding dirt road and surrounded by the sleeping bodies of his friends. It was early morning, the dark sky showing the barest hints of pink and gold, and their fire was beginning to burn low. The embers glowed a faint red, and flakes of black ash whirled through the air as Cassian poked at them half-heartedly with a stick.

Ren rubbed at his temple and tried to sit up, before thinking better of it as a dull, burning pain speared through his left side. He slumped back against the ground with a low groan.

“Ah, good,” Cassian said, not looking away from the smouldering charcoal. “You’re awake. About time.”

And it was strange, because all Ren could do was laugh, even though it hurt, because everything _made sense now._

He wanted to hold Cassian, even if he was an asshole. He wanted to cuddle him and flick his nose and call him an idiot, and he wanted to kiss him again, but better than last time, and he wanted to sneakily hold his hand in the street and then duck into an alley for a quick kiss, just like the daydreams of rebellion he’d had as a child.

Ren was pretty sure he’d suffered some minor brain damage, but he was also pretty sure that Cassian wanted to kiss him again, too.

Perhaps his blow to the head had shaken something loose, or perhaps it had finally made things click into place. Whatever it was, Ren was finding this whole situation far too funny to care.

Cassian eyed him disdainfully, with a hint of concern peeking through that carefully crafted mask, as Ren laughed (read: wheezed) on the dew-damp grass beside him. “Careful,” he said neutrally, turning back to poke at the fire again. “Boblem thinks you punctured a lung.”

Ren just cackled again and, reaching up with one hand, grabbed the front of Cassian’s tunic and pulled him down for a kiss.

It wasn’t as elegant as Ren would’ve perhaps wanted; Cassian toppled over onto him with an undignified squawk, and Ren was still laughing as he tried to kiss him, so it was more of a bumping of noses and lips than anything else.

Cassian pulled back, allowing to Ren take note of his flushed cheeks with smug satisfaction, before propping himself up more comfortably with his hands on either side of Ren’s head. He leaned in again, letting his lips graze Ren’s jaw as the giggles wracking his body finally trailed off. “You’ve finally gone insane,” Cassian murmured, sounding strangely delighted at the prospect, before kissing him properly on the lips.

It was different in many ways from their first kiss. For one, neither of them had been spitting and snarling at each other like feral alley cats mere seconds before, and, as opposed to a cold stone wall at Ren’s back, there was soft, damp grass, soaking into the back of his coat in a mind-whirling juxtaposition to the warm body at his front and the near-branding sensation of Cassian’s hand curled into his shirt. For another, this time, there was no mask in the way. Without the cold metal separating their skin, Renard could feel Cassian’s eyelashes tickling against his cheeks.

Almost as if Cassian was noticing the same thing, he brought up a hand and swept his thumb gently over Ren’s cheekbone, almost as if he was trying to memorise the sensation. A slow shiver rolled down Ren’s spine at the thought of that, and Cassian smirked.

“Smug bastard,” Ren muttered, and kissed him again.

Renard hated not understanding, and he still didn’t understand Cassian at all, but he thought that, maybe, just this one time, he didn’t mind so much.

**Author's Note:**

> bonus:
> 
> ren: how do you still taste like the sea? we left lakeside weeks ago.
> 
> cassian, a slut for the aesthetic (TM): because- 
> 
> elyse, who had been awake the entire time: it’s ‘cos he’s so salty.


End file.
